Katrine eBook

There was nothing in the Irishman’s appearance
to suggest the man of fashion whom Frank had known
in Carolina. His clothes were of rough tweed,
he wore an unpicturesque derby hat, and he had the
unconsciousness of self which comes from intense occupation
with great affairs.

Francis listened to the jolly laugh, the quick evasion,
the masterful voice, leading, cajoling; he knew the
men were wanting something from McDermott, and realized,
as they did not, that it was something the Irishman
had determined not to give.

It was of Frank’s own home they were speaking,
disconnectedly, and in a strange jargon: of Loon
Mountain, Way-Home River, road-beds, cost of production,
capitalization, bridges.

As he sat wondering at them, their concentration,
their unity of thought, their enthusiasm, by one of
those throws of fate, which go far toward the making
of our lives, Dermott’s voice came to him clear
and scornful.

“I have heard much, I might say overmuch, recently,
of family and ancestors, and have sometimes wondered
what those boasted ancestors might think were they
permitted to see the ineffective descendants who bear
their names with neither achievement nor distinction.
Now take my own case. My family was well and
bitterly known in Ireland as far back as the ninth
century. And at the end it availed only enough
money to get me through college and over to America.
But I’ve done some things, and with the conceit
of the self-made man I’m fond of mentioning them.
Directly or indirectly, five thousand people depend
on me for daily bread. It’s helped the
world that I’ve lived. It’s not what
a man is born to, I ask. Family? To hell
with family! The question is: What have
you done?”

If the words had been spoken directly to him, they
could not have stung Frank more than they did.
What had he done? It was Katrine’s question,
and he recalled the lovable, vibrant little figure
on the lodge steps demanding of him if he had no desire
to work, no wish to take part in the great constructive
affairs of men.

The group at the next table rose with an approval
of Dermott’s final words, and, cigars lighted,
were going their several ways, when the Irishman turned
and, apparently seeing Frank for the first time, came
toward him with a smile, hand outstretched.

“It’s good to see you again, Ravenel!”
he cried. “If you’re alone I’ll
smoke at your table for a minute or two.”
He waved a farewell to the men who awaited him.
It was a farewell as well as a dismissal. “You’ve
heard the news of Dulany, I suppose?”

“Only a few days ago. I have been fishing
in the Canadian woods. I can scarcely say how
sorry I am.”

“Ah, well! Ah, well! Ye did all ye
could for him,” said McDermott, genially, “and
it’s probably for the best. Everything is,
you know,” he added. “But I thought
you might be interested to hear something of the little
girl. She has just sailed for France. I saw
her off. Transatlantique—­yesterday.
She has gone to Paris to study with Josef.”